by Shana Galen
He sighed, and she could feel the slight tremor from the effort it took for him to restrain himself.
With a smile, she released the fall of his trousers, freeing him. She took him in her hand and stroked his hard, velvet length. His head fell back, revealing the strong column of his throat, and Sophia forgot about her own needs. She could have touched him, pleasured him, all evening. She loved watching him.
And then his eyes opened, and his molten gray gaze met hers. “How did I survive all these years without you?” His hands on her hips tightened. “You—the real you.”
“Miserably, I suppose.” She stroked him again, and he shuddered.
“Yes. And I was miserable tonight, waiting for you.”
“That’s because you didn’t trust me.” She allowed one finger to tease him, and he teased her right back with tongue and teeth on her nipple.
When they were both breathless and aching for more, he said, “I admit, I had my doubts. But you’re here now. Bloody hell, are you here.” He put his mouth on her again, and she didn’t comprehend his next words. If he wasn’t inside her soon, she thought she would begin screaming in frustration.
“But you’re here now,” she heard him saying when she could concentrate again. “And everything is… you.”
She knew just what he meant. Everything was brighter and darker and louder and softer when they were together. There was something that held them—even when they were estranged for all those years—that bound them and could never be severed. She supposed that was why neither of them had ever strayed. She’d had opportunity, and one look at him told her he’d had opportunity as well.
But they were bound. Now. Forever.
She lifted her hips and angled them over him, stroking the tip of his erection with her core. His gaze, hot and dark and full of desire, locked on hers. His lips moved, as though he struggled to speak. Finally, “Are you sure this is what you want?” His voice was low and husky, filled with effort.
She nodded. “More than anything.” Slowly, torturously, she took him inside her. She felt every inch of him slide against her, filling her, warming her, making them one. And when he was embedded to the hilt, she rocked back, causing him to groan, and then forward again so he gripped her hips. But she didn’t want him taking control. She waited until his grip relaxed, and rocked again, setting her own pace and rhythm. She wanted slow and steady, like the rocking of the coach. She wanted to prolong the pleasure, the torture, until they were both gasping with it. But when she felt him swell inside her, she could hold back no longer. She let go and rode him hard and fast. The climax slammed into her like a runaway carriage, and she could only hold on and see it to the end.
But just when she thought she could stand no more pleasure, Adrian reached between them, touching her, and she soared again. Adrian thrust inside her, making a guttural sound, and then he was with her—flying, soaring, falling, and slamming into the most profound ecstasy she had ever experienced.
They were lying half on the seats and half off. Sophia had no recollection of how they’d come to be there, but she opened her eyes, and Adrian was on top of her. Her back was on the squabs, but one shoulder was jammed against the door. Adrian rolled off her, slamming his knee on the seat opposite them in the process. He winced, found his balance, and raked his fingers through his hair. “That was—”
She looked at him, waited. When he couldn’t find the words, she laughed. “Yes, exactly.” She tried to sit, faltered, and he pulled her up. She attempted to find her clothing, but it was too dark. Adrian held up something that looked like a shirt… or a coat.
“I think there was something we were discussing before…” Adrian gestured vaguely. Sophia noted his cravat was still tied perfectly and wondered how they’d managed that. “Something important.”
“The Maîtriser group,” she said. “We have to infiltrate their headquarters, capture their leader, and force him to confess to Jenkinson’s murder.”
“Is that all?” He glanced at his pocket watch, still miraculously in place. “I suppose we’d better get started.”
***
Ten minutes later, they sat on a dark residential street a few houses down from the one Sophia had seen Twombley enter earlier that day. Adrian was supposed to be watching the house, but he couldn’t keep himself from watching Sophia as well.
When she’d climbed into the carriage that night, he’d almost ordered the lad out of his coach before he realized the small boy in black was his wife. And then he gaped. Her hair was tucked under a cap, and he could have sworn she moved differently. Gone was the sway of her hips. In its place was a cocky swagger. Adrian couldn’t have said which was worse. The sway had been arousing, but knowing what he knew about the legs and hips and bottom hidden in those trousers, the swagger all but undid him.
She glanced away from the house and met his gaze. “My lord, are you observing?” she asked.
“No. I’m a bit… distracted.” He indicated her attire. She smiled. Why did he have the feeling she found this amusing?
“This is easier for me to maneuver in. We’re going to have to scale a wall—possibly more than one. I couldn’t get a good look at the other side of the garden. And there are guards. I counted half a dozen, and that was after the mass exodus. I imagine there are at least that many still on the premises.”
As she continued to speak, Adrian closed his eyes and tried to see the picture she painted—the layout of the complex, the number of men, the possible entrances and exits. And every time he thought he succeeded, he’d picture her bottom in those trousers and lose focus.
But he was a bloody professional, and he would bloody hell be damned if he was going to allow a woman’s curves—even his own wife’s curves—to distract him from something so important.
With sheer force of willpower, he looked past the trousers and coat—why did he have to know she wore nothing under that shirt?—and concentrated on forming a plan. A few moments later he instructed their coachman to drive on and leave them several blocks from the Maîtriser group’s complex. The coach rolled to a stop, and Adrian’s mind was sharp and focused on the main objective. He could pull that cap off her head and watch her curls tumble down later…
The night was warm with the faintest scent of hollyhocks on the breeze when he stepped out of the coach. Though the summer weather persisted into mid-August, Adrian thought he could detect the crisp smell of fall under that fragrant sweetness. He glanced up, noted the clouds obscured the moon tonight, and hoped for continued good fortune.
Sophia walked slightly ahead of him, keeping to the shadows, although in this residential area of London, it seemed no one was about. The tree-lined street was quiet, and the houses, with their flower boxes and warm, glowing windows, were their only observers. When she cut down a narrow path between two houses, Adrian looked behind him to ensure they were not observed, then followed. She paused after leading him a few yards, crouching beside a tall stone wall.
“Twombley went to the front of the house,” she said, keeping her voice low. “This is the garden wall I told you about.”
“We scale it and enter through the back of the house.”
“We could, but it’s not my first choice.”
“What’s your first choice?”
“We knock on the front door.”
Adrian blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“We could scale this wall, creep through the garden, dispatch the guards, and end up tired and bloody before we ever find Foncé.”
“And?” What else did she expect? That was the job.
She sighed. “Or we knock on the front door and avoid all of that.”
“Why do you think Foncé will agree to see us? This is late for a social call.”
“Because he’s expecting us. Twombley will have told him everything by now. If not, he wouldn’t have started preparations to leave.”
She had a point. But as they’d seen no movement in the house after watching a quarter hour, Adrian surmised t
hat the final departure had either already taken place or been postponed. The question was until when? If morning, they had time to go back and get another operative or two to assist. If the plan was to leave later tonight, they had to move now.
He looked at the wall before them. “We still have to scale it. I need to get an image of the back in case we need to escape that way.”
“Of course. Watch out for the guards.”
Adrian pulled a pistol from each pocket and readied them. “I’m prepared.”
“So am I.”
He watched as she withdrew a long, sharp knife from her boot and tucked it up her sleeve. He could only send prayers of thanks she’d elected to forgo her pistol tonight. Otherwise, he’d have had to look out for more than the guards.
He was about to tell her he’d scale the wall first and cover her descent, but she already had a handhold and was climbing nimbly up the stone. She was quick and fast like a monkey, and Adrian was almost glad she had gone first. He doubted he would be as graceful.
When she reached the top of the wall, she peered over cautiously, then gave him a nod and jumped over. He heard the soft thud of her landing before he scrambled over.
He landed beside her and ducked under the shadow of a hedge.
“There.” She pointed toward the main house, some distance away, and he watched as a dark shape moved across a lighted door. “And there.” She pointed to another guard.
“Well, they haven’t evacuated yet.” But he noted two of the guards were busy moving several crates from a storage building to the main house. The departure preparations were still under way.
They couldn’t afford to delay.
Adrian turned calculating eyes on the structures. The house was large but not overly so. It boasted several smaller buildings—what looked to be a greenhouse, a kitchen, and some sort of storage building. Adrian doubted any were what they seemed, but from the outside all looked innocuous enough. The house itself was brick and stone, nothing special. The gardens were large, but no gardener lived here. They were filled with shrubs and trees—no flowers or any of the other plants those interested in botany always seemed to be discussing. But the gardens were well kept. No overgrowth to hide his approach.
Sophia and Adrian sat and watched for a quarter of an hour, not speaking, and in that time, Adrian counted six guards. All but the two moving items—guns? money?—were on patrol, and all looked alert and aware. Adrian assumed all were armed as well. They’d probably been told to shoot first and ask questions later.
“Have you changed your mind?” Sophia whispered. “Do you want to go in this way?”
It was what he knew, what he was used to. He’d fought his way into places more heavily guarded than this. But if an operative couldn’t be flexible, then it was time he found a new line of work. He took her hand. “Let’s go.”
She raised her brows. “In through the front door?”
“Why not? I like to live dangerously.”
***
Adrian gave her a last dark look before he rapped on the plain gold knocker. Sophia noted much had changed since the afternoon. No guards stood at the front of the house now, and it was no longer a hive of activity. The house was quiet and appeared at rest. Foncé had better be inside. If they had missed him…
Sophia bit her lip and tried to stop fidgeting. She stood behind Adrian, her long hair falling over her shoulders. She’d lost her cap on the way back over the wall and hadn’t bothered to retrieve it. No need anyway—they weren’t pretending to be anything other than who they were now.
She bounced on the balls of her feet, feeling the weight of her knife tucked in her sleeve, ready to slip into her hand. She didn’t know who would open the door—or even if it would open.
They stood there, her heart pounding ten, eleven, twelve times, and no sound came from the house. Adrian scowled at her. “Try again,” she said.
He knocked louder, the sound seeming to echo down the quiet street. Finally, she heard the clicking of shoes on a hard surface. The door opened, and a quiet, unassuming little man stood before them. “May I help you?” he asked pleasantly.
Sophia almost apologized for the interruption before she realized this was all part of the ruse. Adrian never even hesitated. He handed the man a card. “Lord and Lady Smythe to see Monsieur Foncé.”
The butler took the card, his brow furrowing delicately and his mustache twitching. “Who? There’s no Monsieur Foncé at this address.”
“Then we’d like to speak with Mr. Twombley,” Sophia said, “or any representative of the Maîtriser group on the premises.”
“The what group?”
But she’d seen the flicker of fear in his face, and before he could back up and slam the door, Adrian moved to wedge his foot in the opening. “Do you mind if we take a look around?”
“Why, yes! Please remove your foot at once!”
But Adrian wedged his shoulder against the door and shoved it open. Once again, Sophia appreciated the benefits of having Adrian with her. He went in first, and she followed, sliding her knife in her hand as she did so. Immediately, a large man with a jagged scar on his cheek stepped into the vestibule. He went for Adrian, who pulled one of his pistols. The guard stopped and grunted.
“Go get Foncé.”
“No need, monsieur. I’m right here.”
Sophia whirled at the sound of the cultured voice with the heavy French accent. Standing behind them, in the doorway of what appeared to be a small parlor, was a tall, broad-shouldered man with long black hair, a generous mouth, and piercing blue eyes. She didn’t think she’d ever seen eyes that blue before. She felt his gaze on her, and when he curved those lips into a seductive smile, she warmed unwillingly.
“I see we have guests. From the Barbican group, I presume?”
The butler handed Foncé their card as the handsome man stepped into the vestibule. “Lord and Lady Smythe, sir.”
“Ah.” Foncé made a show of looking at their card, while another guard sidled into the vestibule. Sophia gave Adrian a look.
“It’s becoming a little crowded for my liking,” Adrian said. “I’d like to chat in private.”
Foncé raised his brows. “What makes you think I have anything to chat with you about, monsieur? Madame?”
“The least you could do is offer us some refreshment.” Sophia smiled and extended her hand. She counted on Foncé reaching for it. Foncé knew she was an operative, but it was instinct to take a lady’s hand. Even as he realized his mistake, Sophia had his arm behind his back and her knife pressed to his throat.
The butler let out a small screech, the two—no, now three—guards moved forward, and Adrian stepped so his back was to the wall, his pistol aimed at the guard nearest Sophia.
Foncé was tall, and Sophia was on tiptoes to hold her knife in place. It meant the point dug into his neck and kept him very still. “Monsieur Foncé,” she murmured in his ear. He smelled clean and woodsy, like evergreen or pine. “I think you know I won’t hesitate to use this knife.”
“Yes, but where will that get you?”
“It would rid the world of a bastard like you. However, if you would be amenable to a brief conversation—a private conversation—I might be persuaded to allow you to remain in this worldly realm a little longer.”
Foncé didn’t move. She couldn’t feel his pulse pounding, which meant he wasn’t terrified. He was considering. She had no idea what his answer would be, and she sent Adrian a warning look. Be ready. They might yet need to fight their way out of this.
“Vincent,” Foncé said, voice level and with a touch of ennui, “step outside with your men. I’ll call for you if I need you.”
The guard with the jagged scar frowned but signaled the other guards without argument. “Oui, monsieur.”
The guards and the small butler withdrew, leaving Adrian and Sophia alone with Foncé. Not that Sophia was relieved. The guards would return, and neither she nor Adrian would know when to expect the attack. Adrian kept his pi
stol trained on Foncé, but Sophia withdrew the knife from his throat. He adjusted his cravat then gestured to the parlor behind him. “Why don’t we speak in here?” His voice was pleasant, and his smile appeared genuine, but Sophia knew not all snakes gave a warning before striking.
Sophia entered the small parlor and quickly scanned the room—small sofa, two chairs, a fireplace with fire, and a lady’s antique escritoire. One of the chairs had a book laid over the arm. Apparently, Foncé had been reading. The room was papered with a pattern resembling green ivy, and the rug on the floor matched. Sophia could only assume the house had come furnished, as she did not imagine this was Foncé’s taste. No, he would favor heavy furnishings and dark, masculine colors.
“Where is Twombley?” Adrian asked.
Foncé walked to the chair with the book and sat gracefully, crossing his legs. “Monsieur Twombley is in the cellar.”
Adrian scowled. He’d moved to Foncé’s right, and she was on his left. “Send for him. I’d like to speak with him.”
Foncé gave him a patient smile. “Oh, he is in no condition to speak with you, monsieur.”
Sophia swallowed. She had no doubt, were they to visit the cellar, they’d find Twombley dead. She could only hope Foncé hadn’t hacked into the poor man.
“We’re investigating the murder of George Jenkinson,” Sophia said. “We have reason to believe the Maîtriser group killed him.”
Foncé lifted his book, thumbed through it idly. “Investigating a murder. I didn’t realize the Barbican group concerned itself with such matters.”
“We’re not with the Barbican group.” Adrian sounded pained to say it.
“Oh?” Foncé’s brows shot up. “That lessens your prestige considerably.”
“Even so,” Sophia said, “we’re taking you into custody for the murder of George Jenkinson.”
“Go ahead.” Foncé set his book on the arm of his chair. “You’ll never prove it, of course.” He reached into his coat. “Unless you have copies of these.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed, and Sophia could see his fingers twitch. He wanted those documents. “What are those?”
